


The Organ Player

by mordicus_spordicus, Mx_Maneater



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: (no not like Love Never Dies we don't speak of that here), Afro-Swedish Christine, Age Gap is Less Severe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Collaboration, F/M, Financially Poor Post-Grad Erik, Himbo Supreme Raoul, Music Major Christine, Rating May Change, Setting | NYC, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordicus_spordicus/pseuds/mordicus_spordicus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater
Summary: With 45,000 dollars in college debt, a constantly flooded basement apartment, and a horrendously distorted face, Erik assumes he will be using his degree in Music Composition to play weddings, communions and funerals until the day he dies. Likewise, with a lack of confidence and terrible stage fright, Christine figures she’s doomed to be a chorus member and background dancer forever. Maybe if they put their heads together, they can reach for the stars and not be afraid of falling.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Communion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! For both of the authors here, this is our first collaboratively written fan work. Our approach is that each of us will alternate writing a chapter in the perspective of one of main characters, Erik (mordicus_spordicus) and Christine (Mx_Maneater). As for where this came from, Mx_Maneater came up with the premise, I supplied fuel and an outline, and our mutual friend egged us on. I hope you enjoy!

The church’s bathroom has always been especially cramped, but it’s more noticeable now when he’s banging elbows into every possible wall without even using half of his wingspan. He grumbles out a curse or two, struggling to prevent himself from diving headfirst into the antique wall lights, before finally stilling when his clothes are settled to his liking. Smoothly, he stands straight, the top of his hat brushing the ceiling, and carefully regards his image in the mirror. He pushes a few flyaway hairs away from sight and straightens his sleek black surgical mask before stepping back out into the atrium.

As luck would have it, his return coincided with the entrance of most of today’s guests. A frighteningly large number of children dart through the nave, playing tag and chatting loudly as they clamber about the pews, and he manages to avoid most of them. One crosses paths with him, a blond, curly-haired little boy who stares at him wide eyed. He stares back silently; the boy runs off without another word. Slipping through the aisles on the furthest away from the center of the house, Erik takes his place at the organ.

Straight backed on the bench and head leaned down, he keeps his eyes focused on the keys, letting the wide brim of his hat obscure the left side of his face. Oh, how the bishop had gawked at his black garb, the steps to conceal his features, the rate at which he charged; the father accused him of mockery to the sacrament of communion, of scaring all the precocious brats on their special day, of offending all the parents and godparents spending time and tithes to bring yet more people into the church’s thrall. He could have thrown the contents of his water bottle into the priest’s face and blown out the door, cackling that while he wished for their downfall every day, there was no one man powerful enough to take down the Catholic Church. With the thought of next month’s rent payment, Erik excused himself to change into another jacket (one he prepared in the event such an argument occurred), leading to his silent entrance in a well-worn wine-red coat.

This is far from the first time this particular bishop had given him a hard time. Once, he had played for some incredibly important wedding, if the sweat that graced Bishop Brown’s brow throughout the duration of the ceremony was any indication. He had shown up in a similar outfit, all black, and taken his seat at the organ bench, whereupon the bishop walked in and damn near tore his head off for the potential embarrassment in front of the bride’s parents. The groom, who was in earshot at the time, shot him a concerned look, but looked away when Erik tried to return his gaze. At the very least, Bishop Brown did not win that particular battle; once they thought Erik was out of earshot, the groomsmen descended upon him and insisted that the organist would barely be noticed. As long as he played the bride’s entrance and the mass on time, no one would care. Even now, he’s not sure if he’s offended or grateful for their meddling.

It’s nothing short of miraculous that this particular church continues to seek out his services, he thinks with an internal eye roll. How many times has he shown up to an event here, dressed either like someone who got lost on his way to a Halloween party, or a pallbearer at a funeral? And how many times has the head bishop ranted and raved at his disrespect of the institution of the church? As long as they keep giving him money, he’ll gloss over the proselytizing and the condescension for a little while longer. A different man, a different bishop dressed in the traditional red communion robes, signals the beginning of the ceremony, and Erik’s hands move of their own volition. The church choir begins to sing; he is not looking at the music sheet in front of him, nor is he actually listening to them. He ignores the religious aspects and indulges in the complexity of the music, letting his subconscious take over and drink in that marvelous sound.

The piece draws to its conclusion just in time for the bishop’s second cue, and a smattering of polite applause ripples through the room behind him. He does not turn to acknowledge it, instead electing to simply tip his hat gently down while he turns the pages of his score. The organ’s keys held solace for him, the bronze pipes giving him a sense of much-needed dignity that, as of late, was in short supply. Maybe someday he wouldn’t have to stoop so low as to be the church’s one trick pony.

The choir seats itself, and the bishop begins some drivel about the importance of being a good kid or whatever. No matter how many communions he attends, he’s never been able to pay attention long enough to actually understand what the whole thing was for. His fingers itch in his formal gloves, desperate to play anything else, despite his measures to play a punishing warm up before arriving this morning. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a few new choir members sending him curious looks; he does not return their gaze.

The cavalcade of children behind him, no doubt wiggling in their seats in their impatience to play, remind him of the last Bar Mitzvah he performed at. Pay was not an issue; the family had a good head on their shoulders and an appreciation for the arts. It was the children that were the issue. Once the ceremony proper had ended, they kept requesting inane pop songs and jokes that he was only vaguely aware of. If he had to hear, or, God forbid,  _ play _ anything along the lines of “Baby Shark” ever again, he’d eat his hat in rage. For that reason, he’s glad that the adults (for the most part) choose the songs for the proceedings.

Ever the dedicated performer, he throws himself into the next section upon his next cue, because any music would be better than none at this point. The pieces the bishop selected are dull and absolutely milquetoast, but anything that puts his hands to work will keep him from going crazy for now. His eyes glaze over and close, and with a deep breath he returns to his mindless playing.

So, the pattern repeats itself through that gloomy September afternoon; the bishop cues, Erik plays, and the silence between is filled with drivel and psalms. When the children line up at the edge of the stage, he allows his shoulders to sag just a bit, because that at least means it’s close to the end of the service. He launches into a devoted sonata, letting the rusty old pipe organ burn its way into the souls of the attendees, and only then does he spare a look back at the unfolding scene.

A horde of preteens, no older than ten or eleven, line up in front of the bishop, hands grasped in prayer. The boys are dressed as normally as any in an event as formal as this, with little suits and ties thrown askew in their earlier play. The girls, on the other hand, are all dressed in poofy little white dresses, with some of them even adorned in veils. Just in time, he’s able to watch the decrepit old bishop dole out a communion wafer straight into one of their mouths, without even giving her the option to take it with her upturned hands. He turns back to the keys, unable to swallow the sense of unease he feels at the sight. This will not be the last time he will have to suffer this dread.

The mass ends without further discomfort. He rolls his wrists one by one, letting the joints click and voice their discomfort before he goes home to practice some more. A few choir members pass by and thank him for his help, and he nods stiffly in acknowledgement, too dour to try and speak with any of them. A priest, the one he interacts the most with, cuts through the crowd to approach him with an open envelope.

“Your payment, Mr. Claudin,” he says, presenting the thin paper. Erik takes it, removing the check to look at the amount. Noting that it matches his mental tally, he replaces it without a word. The priest huffs, looking downward, giving Erik’s shoulder a fatherly pat that he certainly did not ask for.

“Really, Erik, we’ve known each other long enough that you don’t have to keep this act up anymore,” he says, frustration bleeding clear as day into his tone. “You nearly gave Bishop Brown an aneurysm when you walked in this morning.”

“What act do you speak of, Father Gabriel?” Erik replies, outwardly humorless. He delights in watching the man’s uncomfortable squirming as he tries to find a valid reason not to dress as one who wants to blend in with the pitch-black night, other than the traditional ‘it’s not proper’. He gently looks down, arms hooked loosely behind his back, letting the brim of his hat obscure his eye roll.

“I’m perfectly willing to continue supporting such a practiced artist like yourself, truly,” he finally settles on, wiping sweat from his wrinkled brow. “But would it be so hard to not antagonize the senior-most members of the clergy?”

“I will certainly try, Father Gabriel,” he says, offering his right hand. Father Gabriel takes it in a brisk shake and walks off with a cordial goodbye. No longer needed, Erik stalks down the aisle to retrieve his bag and beat a hasty retreat. Before he can make it very far though, he nearly bowls someone over, and in an attempt to save them, willingly goes crashing down to the floor.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” calls a lovely, quiet little voice above him, muffled by the fact that his face was smashed into the musty church carpet, his hat askew over his good ear. “Are you alright?”

The voice offers a hand to him, but he holds out his palm in return; he’s fine, he can get up himself. No damage here but maybe a little bruised pride, and a little dust on his slacks. What he’s  _ not _ prepared for is the sight that greets him when he looks at his unintentional victim. 

She’s a young woman, dark eyes wide and brow furrowed in worry. He carefully avoids the hem of her long floral skirt on his ascent, slyly taking a closer look. Her dark skin and intricately arranged box braids are done no favors by the church’s abysmal lighting, but he is instantly so captivated by her beauty and empathy that for a moment, he completely forgets to speak.

“Sorry. I should have been watching where I was going more carefully,” he finally says awkwardly, at least remembering his etiquette enough to look her in the eye. He moves to excuse himself and spare further embarrassment, but he doesn’t get far when he immediately bumps into someone else. At least this time it’s an old friend, and he noticeably relaxes when he realizes he’s once more in the company of Johanna Giry, complete with a little girl clinging to her leg. He thought her daughter was older than this, but maybe he was mistaken?

“Mrs. Giry,” he greets politely, holding a hand to his abdomen. “Good to see you. I didn’t expect you to be in attendance today.”

“No need to be so formal, Mr. Claudin,” she says with a wry smile. Gesturing towards the tyke attached to her hip, she dismisses the child to go play. “My youngest niece’s first communion was the occasion. Like you, I tend not to go into churches on a whim.”

“Meg. Good to see that school hasn’t killed you,” Erik says to the young woman standing a ways behind her, a young blonde engrossed with her phone. That’s right, she’s in college, how could he possibly forget it with this attitude? She glances his way and gives him a disinterested nod. He moves to leave a third time, but a strict hand on his shoulder prevents his progress; he’s not one to disobey Johanna Giry, so he stops in his tracks.

“I would like you to meet one of our family friends, Erik,” she says, gesturing behind him toward the poor girl he almost mowed over. He hopes to God neither of them saw that. “This is Christine Daaé. Her father and I were close.”

“She’s a dual major in music,” Meg chimes in, looking up from her phone. “Though me and the rest of the ballet rats would steal her if we could.”

Turning to look at her once more, he notices more things; chiefly that she looks incredibly nervous. Secondly, the fact he’s solidly a foot taller than her is doing her no favors in this situation. He extends his gloved hand, offering it as a white flag to start over with.

“Erik Claudin,” he offers. She takes his hand in a trembling handshake, noticeably swallowing down the embarrassment of being put on the spot.

“Christine, like they said,” she responds meekly. “Very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He stands straight, allowing his hands to slip into his pockets. “What kind of music do you study?”

“Vocal performance,” she says, wringing her hands. Her light blue peacoat is truly striking, as is her white peasant top.  _ Stay on target, Erik _ . “Once in a while, I play violin or guitar. I dance, too, that’s my other major.”

“She wants to be a performer,” Meg clarifies, cutting between them to bump shoulders with Christine. “This girl can’t get enough of those operas and showtunes. Sometimes I think it may be the only music she listens to!”

“I listen to other music, Meg,” Christine says with grimace, smoothing a lock that was already perfectly in place.

“Classical doesn’t count.”

“Meg —”

“We wanted to catch you before you left, Erik,” Mrs. Giry interrupts, placing that firm hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Meg’s eyes widen, and she immediately falls silent. “Christine was looking for a vocal coach, and we were wondering if you knew any.”

_ Don’t screw this up, Erik. _

“I happen to be a vocal coach.”

_ God damn it, you idiot. _

“Oh?” Christine’s eyes brighten, her hand falling from her hair as her features relax. A white lie is worth it if he can see her smile like that.

“I typically don’t offer those kinds of lessons, but I would happily make an exception this once,” he says, hoping his lopsided grin under the mask reaches his mismatched eyes. He gestures back to the atrium, body already half turned. “I left my bag over in the office. If you’re interested, I’ll give you my card and we can meet somewhere more… relaxed to discuss the terms.”

“Lead the way,” she says with a grin. Meg wears a cheeky one of her own, which he pointedly ignores.

He walks slowly to the office, once or twice glancing back to see if the Girys and their friend are still following. With a knock for courtesy, he opens the door, sneering at the ancient diamond-cut privacy glass as he rounds the lonely desk to retrieve the briefcase he left on the seat. Set carefully on the desktop, he rifles through the outer pockets for a while before producing a sleek black business card. The side he hands her has his name in a dignified serif font and a simple rose, both in red. Flipping it over, she reads rest of its contents;

_ Musical performer, specializing in classical Piano and Organ _

_ Event, composition, and lesson rates available upon request. _

Underneath that are an email and a phone number; no social media handles in sight. She tucks it away in an interior pocket of her peacoat, satisfied with the information.

“Thank you,” she says softly, her hands clasped in front of her, so they don’t wander. “You’ll be hearing from me before the end of the day.”

“I look forward to it, Miss Daaé,” he says, extending his hand once more. When they shake this time, she’s more confident, and he can feel the warmth of her hand through the thin cotton of his gloves.

“I expect you’ll refuse an offer to go to coffee with us?” Mrs. Giry asks, leveling a cool stare at him. She wears a knowing grin, and he lets the mirth show in his eyes in return.

“Unfortunately, I will,” he says, placing a fond palm on her shoulder. “I have a meeting with a friend who will have my head if I’m late. But it was very nice to see you again.”

With that, he tries to exit once more; he makes it down three steps before he realizes he had dropped the check in his haste and turned heel right back inside. The clack of heels against concrete alert him to someone approaching, and he steels himself for another collision before they stop at a respectable distance in front of him.

“This is yours, right?” Christine huffs, out of breath. In her outstretched fingers was the missing check, slightly askew from the envelope, but nevertheless unharmed. “I saw it as we came out of the office, sorry.”

“Yes, it is, thank you,” he says with a noticeable sigh of relief. Unlatching his bag, he tucks it into a much safer interior pocket. “Again, you have nothing to apologize for. I appreciate your kindness, Miss Daaé — I must have lost feeling in my fingers from playing too hard.”

“Please, you can just call me Christine,” she laughs, nervously. With an awkward pat on his arm and a quiet goodbye, she scurries back into the security of the atrium, leaving him speechless once more.

Righting his hat, he stalks out into the street towards the nearest subway entrance. If Nadir catches wind of this, he will never hear the end of it.


	2. It's Raining Men

Christine isn’t paying attention when Johanna calls them to the barre. She’s in the middle of class, which usually means that she’s at her most focused, but today she can’t seem to keep her thoughts from wandering to the mysterious vocal coach she’s meeting in the afternoon. _Erik Claudin_. A man in a mask.

Part of her recognizes that her newest contact is a little more than odd—after all, it’s not every day that someone shows up to a Communion in a surgical mask, wide-brimmed hat, and a floor-length trenchcoat the color of blood. And he’s an organ player no less. Christine is certain she’s never met an organ player under the age of seventy, even with her father’s multitude of musical colleagues, and the ones she _has_ met always wear those stuffy suits with coattails.

Is she intimidated by this fallen angel of a man? Yes, perhaps a little. It doesn’t help that he’s about ten feet tall, and she knocked him over in their very first encounter. But she’s also intrigued enough to schedule another meeting.

“Christine! Keep your toes pointed—your dégagé are getting sloppy.”

She snaps back to attention. “Yes, Mrs. Giry.” In private, she’s “Johanna,” but it wouldn’t do to call her that in front of the class. Even her own daughter knows to answer her politely.

Christine finishes her set of dégagé with Johanna’s count, 8-8-4-4-2-2-1-1-1-1. She calls a break before they move to practicing jumps, and Meg materializes by Christine’s side before most have even released the barre.

“Well?” she asks. “Did you call him last night?” Her voice is overeager and practically dripping with excitement, and Christine can tell that she would’ve grilled her about this before class if she’d arrived more than thirty seconds early.

Christine takes a sip from her water bottle and tries to appear nonchalant as she answers. “I didn’t _call_ him, no. I emailed him like a normal person would.” Perhaps it comes out casual like she hopes, like she hasn’t been thinking and wondering about him all day.

Meg grins, reading the subtext she wishes she could hide, and throws an arm around her shoulder. “Christine, you _dog!_ Are you sure there were no late-night ‘ _I just needed to hear your voice again_ ’ exchanges? No singing to each other across the city by candlelight?”

Her boundless amusement for this is insufferable, though Christine only purses her lips and tries to hide her blush. “No. An email. _Professional_ and to the point.”

Meg boos and shakes her by the shoulders. “Okay, but like I _saw_ your face when Mom introduced you to him. You looked like a blushing maiden from the 1800s—it was disturbing, really.”

Christine lets out a squawk of indignation and then goes about furiously fixing her braids into a proper bun. She needs something to do with her hands just now. “It’s not like that. I got nervous because I bowled him over; I don’t even _know_ him. He’s also probably way older than me.” She glances at Meg as she says it, almost hoping for a contradiction. It’s not that he looked _old_ or anything—she just couldn’t really determine his age with only a sliver of his face to go by.

“Nah, he’s only in his late 20s, I think,” Meg answers, and she lets out an inward sigh of relief. “Just finished up his graduate degree in _Music Theory_ , of all things.”

“Oh?” Christine asks carefully. If she shows too much interest, Meg really _won’t_ ever shut up about it. But she can’t help asking just one more thing: “And about his, um...style decisions?”

Meg snorts inelegantly. It’s a wonder she can pull herself together so well in ballet, because in real life, she’s not nearly so graceful. “I was wondering when you were gonna bring that up. He’s not a creep—if that’s what you’re asking. But he’s dressed like that for as long as Mom has known him. I think he just fancies himself as a turbo-goth or something.”

“T-turbo...goth?” Christine considers it. “Do goths usually wear masks?”

Meg’s brow furrows slightly. “The mask...I’m actually not sure about the mask. He’s never taken it off when I’m around, so I always assumed he had a scar or something. Either that, or—” her eyes take on a devilish gleam, “—he’s _hiding vampire fangs!_ ” Her fingers dig into Christine’s arm as she feigns a maniacal laugh.

Christine deflates. It seems that’s all the useful information she’s going to get from her friend today. “You’ve been playing that vampire game too much lately. What was it? ‘Vampire the bloody-things?’”

“It’s ‘Vampire the _Masquerade_ : Bloodlines.’ C’mon Christine, I thought we were _friends_.”

She smiles softly at that, but is unable to respond before they’re called back to the floor.

  


The class ends on a slightly more chaotic note. Chrstine takes a tumble on a missed landing, and Johanna is overall disappointed with most of the class’s pirouettes. It’s a bit frustrating, but she’s learned not to take it personally, and her knee doesn’t hurt too much when she does the cool-down.

Her thoughts are still cast forward to today’s meeting—what Mr. Claudin (Erik? Can she call him that?) will be like as a coach. They’re not singing today, just working out the details, but she’s excited to get started.

She’s also curious what he’s planning to _wear_.

They’re meeting at a café near campus in a little more than half an hour, and Christine finds herself toying with the business card that’s shoved in her jacket pocket. Meg had laughed at her on the way out of class, accusing that she kept “accidentally” pulling it out to look at instead of her phone. Maybe that’s true. Somewhere between yesterday and today, she’s managed to memorize it.

_Erik Claudin. Musical performer, specializing in classical Piano and Organ. Event, composition, and lesson rates available upon request._

She thumbs at the corner that she knows holds a rose, and thanks the stars that she hasn’t “accidentally” memorized his phone number too. Not yet anyways.

She arrives at Café Populaire nearly twenty minutes early, knowing she’s being ridiculous, but quite unable to help it. After ballet class, she’d taken time to shower and change into normal clothes, but between pacing her room and calculating how long it’d take to walk here, she somehow underestimated the amount of time she had left.

Christine orders a coffee, two creams and a dash of vanilla, and sits stirring it by the door. She’s never realized how terribly awkward it is to wait for someone at a café when you don’t know them well. Perhaps he’s already forgotten what she looks like.

But with ten minutes to spare, she spots him—walking at a fast clip down the sidewalk, attired quite similarly to the night before, if not for his trench being black this time. He reaches for the door, and she notes again the gloves. Distractedly, she wonders what they could even be for if not merely performance. _Is he a germaphobe, perhaps?_

Without really meaning to, as soon as he’s in the door, she’s on her feet—both waving and calling to him as if he’ll somehow miss her. “Erik—... I mean, Mr. Claudin! Over here!” The other patrons glance upon her in a way that makes her face heat with embarrassment. _She’d really just meant to call him quietly from her seat_.

The man turns to glance at her in surprise, his feet stopping shortly, and another customer nearly collides with him. “Sorry,” she hears him mumble, and then he’s striding past tables to come over and greet her.

“Christine,” he says quietly, and something shoots through her at his smooth voice saying her name. “I’m glad you could meet me today.”

“Likewise,” she says. “I apologize for the short notice, Mr. Claudin.” And then, because she’s a nervous wreck under the niceties, she sticks out her hand.

_Crap. We already shook hands last night. He probably thinks that I’m crazy._

But with surprising grace, he takes her outstretched hand in his and gives it a shake and then a gentle squeeze. “Please, call me Erik. I’m not _that_ old yet.” He chuckles a little, and it’s nearly as pleasant-sounding as his voice itself.

“Oh. Of course.” She doesn’t realize that she’s relieved until he’d said it—she finds she’d much rather take lessons with someone she’s on a first-name basis with. As much as she wants to perform in her future, she’s never liked the pressure of crowds, and working one-on-one with someone is only better when she’s comfortable. Calling him “Mr. Claudin” all the time—now that she’s imagining it—sounds rather more stilted than she thinks she would enjoy.

But “Erik”—perhaps, she can come to relax around “Erik.”

“Would you like anything from the café? I went ahead and got a drink.”

He hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head and slips into the seat across from her. “No, I think I’m fine without. But feel free to order whatever you’d like if you’re hungry.”

She studies his face for a moment, wondering if he’s refusing because he’d have to take off his mask or if he’s genuinely happier without. He’s certainly gaining enough attention in this quaint college café, the way he’s dressed, but the fact that it’s New York reduces the wary glances and whispers to a low murmur around them. People walk down the streets in anything from mascot costumes to singlets here—anything is possible.

“Oh, I’m good with coffee,” she says quickly. Because while she might have been considering a muffin or a sandwich, she definitely isn’t going to create more opportunities for awkwardness with her one-sided feasting. It’s bad enough to eat in front of other people when they’re _also_ eating.

There’s a lapse of nervous silence, but Erik thankfully breaks it before it flounders on too long. He clears his throat with a nod. “Right. Well, I know you wanted to discuss the vocal lessons, so…”

“Yes, that’s right!” _How has she already forgotten?_ “I know you said you don’t normally offer this kind of service, but...if you don’t mind me asking, what is your background in singing?”

Instead of being offended though, he seems relieved to have a topic he can talk about at length. “Of course. So I’m not sure how much Mrs. Giry told you, but I earned my graduate degree in Music Theory. My main focuses were piano and organ, but I also studied vocal and choral composition over the years. I also partook in numerous performances within the university’s musical college as well as the neighboring community. Though it’s not what I usually give lessons in, I assure you that I am also qualified as a vocal coach under my musical certificate.”

“Oh, splendid!” _Since when did she say things like “splendid?”_ “I have some experience from past tutors, and my father, of course. Oh—he was a classical violinist in his day; I don’t think I’ve mentioned. He later transitioned to teaching music at the university level.”

"Really? What’s his name?” Erik sounds almost excited as he asks. “I’m curious whether I ever came across him in my own studies. Does he still teach?”

“Gustave Daaé.” Christine swallows. “And no, unfortunately. He passed away five years ago now.”

She sees Erik’s eyes tighten in a wince. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...”

“No, no—it’s okay! I mean... _it’s_ not okay, but it’s okay that you asked. It makes me happy to talk about him. And he really was a brilliant musician.”

Erik nods, running a gloved thumb over his chin. “I’ve definitely heard of him, though I can’t remember whether it was in school, or just from Mrs. Giry. The two were friends, if I recall, yes?”

“Yes. They met when he was still part of the Swedish National Orchestra, and Johanna was the principal ballerina at the Paris Opera House. In his travels, he visited New York—where he fell in love with both the city and my mother. After a few more years with the orchestra, he decided to settle down here and teach at Juilliard.”

“Juilliard? Wow, I’m impressed. And he taught violin at the conservatory?”

She nods. “Violin was his passion. I like it too, but…” she shrugs a little, trying to articulate her messy feelings, “I like to diversify. That’s why I took up guitar and why I’m pursuing singing on a more challenging level. I’m not someone who can pour my soul into just one thing.”

He tilts his head a little and seems to consider that. “Yes, well you certainly come from a musical background. What specifically are you looking for in a vocal coach? Any particular style or focus?”

Christine takes a sip of her drink, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I would like to perform in musicals someday,” she says rather meekly, knowing how some of the academic-types frown upon such aspirations. “Musicals or operas, that is. So, I suppose, my focus is opera—I’ve heard it’s good to be classically trained in things like that to give you an edge over the other singers.” She chews on her lip after she’s said it, waiting for his response.

But surprisingly, he just chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners, and says, “Opera is a magnificent art to be trained in. I’ll admit, I’m not as...um... _keen_ on modern musicals, but I’m very familiar with operatic classics, if that’s what you’d like to learn.”

“I mean, among other things, but yes. I would like to start there.” She can forgive him his non-love of musicals as long as he’s not a jerk about it. Though she might just throw some showtunes into their lessons to test it.

They chat for a while longer about music that interests them, and he inquires politely about what drew her to ballet. She cites her longtime friendship with the Girys and, again, her desire to perform, and they converse rather amicably about it all until her coffee runs empty. It’s sneaky, the way he does it—fielding questions and comments so smoothly that she barely notices he’s not sipping away on his own; it would normally be awkward to talk in a café without the pretense of a drink, but somehow with him it isn’t.

Christine finds she rather likes speaking with him. His voice is deep and lulling, and he hangs on her words with more focus than anyone she can remember. Perhaps he’s learned it to make up for the hidden expressions behind his mask, but by the end of their conversation, she feels like she almost doesn’t need to see his face to tell what he’s thinking.

Though that doesn’t stop her from wanting to.

She’s about to gather up the courage to ask about it on their way out, when someone interrupts them with a shouted “Hey!” from across the street. They both glance up, and Erik sighs heavily with a curse of frustration at whoever the man waving at him is. The gesture is excited—he almost gives the impression of a dog wagging its tail—and he crosses the street towards them as soon as it’s clear.

“Erik! I can’t believe I’m seeing you out and about. What’s the occasion—a miracle?” He’s a man of medium height and a kind face, and he looks Middle Eastern. When she offers a tentative smile, he tosses her a wink. “And who’s your lovely companion?”

Erik has gone all stiff beside her, like he can’t fathom having run into a friend like this unplanned. (To be honest, Christine is quite surprised as well; with the loner vibe he gives off, she wasn’t sure if he _had_ any.) Looking between them now, she also notes that the two couldn’t be more different.

“Nadir. What are you doing here?” He asks it with more suspicion than Christine suspects is warranted.

“Just out for a walk, dear friend. Enjoying the sunshine.” He flashes a smile that’s almost blinding. “But the real question is—what are _you_ doing here? You’ve never been to a café in your life.”

“That’s not true,” Erik grumbles quickly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. Out in the sunlight, she realizes that his right eye is actually a different color—it’s blue, where the other one is brown. She thought it had just looked different under the shade of his hat brim.

“Well, who’s your friend? A _true_ gentleman would make an introduction.”

Erik mutters something under his breath that sounds distinctly like “fuck off,” but he does then nod in her direction and say, “Christine Daaé. I’m going to be giving her vocal lessons. Christine, meet Nadir. My... _acquaintance_.”

Nadir’s smile falls into a playful scowl. “Oh, don’t listen to him, Christine! I’m the only friend this curmudgeon even has! We’ve known each other for almost ten years now.” He shoots her another wink, but then his eyes get sidetracked by a tall, handsome businessman who’s just passed them on the left.

“Nadir,” Erik’s voice is curt, like he’s taking pains not to say more. “If that’s all, I really need to be going. I’m sure Christine has other engagements as well—more important than hanging around nosy journalists at least.”

“Oh, not really,” she says with a small smile. She turns to Nadir. “You’re a journalist?”

His eyes snap back from whatever dashing specimen they’re chasing now, and he says, “Sorry? Oh, yes! I’m a journalist; inspiring others with the written word and all that.”

“What sort of things do you report?” She’s genuinely curious—she’s never met a journalist before.

Erik sighs like this turn in conversation is the worst thing he could have imagined happening to him today.

“I report on events going on in the city. Mostly in the arts—lots of theatre and dance stuff. That’s actually how I—”

“ _Nadir_ ,” Erik cuts in.

But the man simply speaks over top of him, “—how I _met_ Erik in the first place. Oh, you should’ve seen him! Eighteen, brand new to college and new to the stage… He had the voice of an angel, but the attitude of a demon waiting to drag you straight to hell—”

" _Nadir!_ ” This time, Erik says it with enough force that his friend finally stops. His fingers are twitching in the air, like he really wants to strangle the man, but has kept himself just this side of decorous. The two stare at each other, neither wanting to back down—enough to make Christine cough to ease the awkwardness.

Christine can’t say for sure, but there’s a pinkness that’s crept all the way up to the skin beneath his eyes, and she thinks he might be blushing.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Nadir continues, as if he hasn’t caused any of this sudden, thick tension, “I can tell Erik wants to get on his way, so I’ll stop there for now. We’ll have to resume this chat over drinks sometime, yeah? It was lovely meeting you!” He does a flourishing mock-bow, and then he turns and is gone.

“Um, sure!” she says brightly, though a little overwhelmed. “Nice meeting you…”

She turns back to face Erik, who is regarding her a bit curiously, though he looks away when she sees it. “Don’t take anything he says to heart. Most of what he does is to try to get a rise out of me.”

Christine offers an amused smile. “I noticed. But...I wouldn’t mind, you know—getting drinks sometime, I mean. He seems fun, and I’ve enjoyed talking to you too.” She hopes this isn’t too forward. That he won’t tell her off for something like “student-teacher relations”—she really doesn’t want their lessons to be as formal as all that. But she’ll also respect whatever answer he gives.

He seems taken aback by her honesty at first, hands darting to fix the angle of his hat. It looks like an anxious thing; she has enough nervous tics to know. When he speaks though, his voice comes out clear and unbothered. “Sure. I’d… That’d be fine, I think.”

It looks like he wants to leave, so Christine offers her hand again without thinking. They’re not close enough to hug or anything, so it seems like the best option—even if it is getting repetitive. “Until next time then,” she says.

His eyes crinkle as he takes her hand, shaking it once before releasing. “Next time.”

If she had to guess, she thinks he might even be smiling.

  


Christine has rounded the corner and walked a decent distance back towards the main campus when she decides to hit the bookstore. They always have stuff like folders and binders, and she’s found that her classes this semester require more paper organization than she’d initially prepared for. She reaches for the door just as it swings open, and, unable to stop her momentum, crashes right into the man coming through.

“Sorry! Oh geez, I’m so sorry!” she says. _This is becoming a bad habit_.

“You’re good! I should’ve seen—...Christine? Is that you?”

She looks up abruptly to catalogue his shoulder-length hair and sweet, chocolate-brown eyes. He looks familiar, but in a way that’s been distorted, like she knew him in a different time. Then it clicks. “Raoul?”

He smiles, and he’s really become rather handsome. “I knew it was you!” he says. “God, it’s been, what? Five or six years?”

“Seven, I think.” She’d left New York at age sixteen when her father’s health had taken a turn for the worse. He’d taken a position at the Royal College of Music in Stockholm while also utilizing the better health services that a place like Sweden could provide. She’d come back only after he’d passed, and she was encouraged to apply to the university here by the Girys.

“Wow, has it really been that long? It feels like just yesterday. How is your father doing? I remember you guys left because of his illness.”

“Yes,” she says quietly, suddenly reluctant to rehash this for a second time today. There are two other boys standing behind him as well, and she can feel their curiosity about their friend’s long-lost sweetheart. It makes her skin itch, and she wishes they’d look away. “He passed away. Five years ago now.”

He has the decency to look ashamed that he’d asked. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says simply. She doesn’t elaborate on the ways in which it’s not. “I didn’t realize you also go to school here though! I would’ve tried to get back in touch if I knew.”

“Ahh, yeah. Dad went here back in the day, so he pushed me to choose it. I like it though, my Brothers keep it real.”

“Your brothers…?” She parses that out. “Oh, you mean Phillipe goes here as well?”

His eyes widen for a second, taking a beat to process the question. “Oh! I mean, yeah, he _did_ go here—he’s graduated now—but I meant, like, my fraternity Brothers. Sigma Chi, y’know?” He gestures to his two buddies behind him sporting the same sweatshirt with greek letters, still lingering awkwardly in the door.

“Oh. Right, gotcha.” She’s really happy to see Raoul; it’s a pleasant and unexpected surprise. But she’s not one for crowds, and she’s not one for strangers—at least not like this—and she finds she’d rather just wait and catch up with him at a time when they’re alone.

He seems to sense this, because his next move is to ask for her number, and she gives it with the relieved promise to meet up with him soon. Raoul smiles, and it’s so warm that, for a second, it almost feels like they’re in high school again. Like he’s holding her hand and taking her to homecoming and carrying her purse at the mall. It’s a pleasant kind of reminiscing—the rare type that’s uncomplicated by the harshness of her father’s decline.

Christine smiles back, and his grin only widens as he tells her how nice it is to see her again. He seems earnest about it too, like he’s not too cool now to speak with her—despite his new friends, despite his new _life_. It’s sweet, and that’s what she remembers most about him: he _is_ sweet. That’s why they dated in the first place.

With a newly-inspired confidence, she gives Raoul a hug before parting. She gets the sense that this meeting might be a good thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks to anyone who's following our little Phantom project. As [mordicus_spordicus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordicus_spordicus/pseuds/mordicus_spordicus) said at the beginning, this is our first time collaborating on a piece, and it's also my first time writing anything for this specific fandom—though I'm having a lot of fun so far! It's been a pet obsession of ours for a while now. 
> 
> Hopefully you enjoyed himbo Raoul. More of that and turbo-goth Erik to come! 
> 
> -[Mx_Maneater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater)  
> xoxo


	3. The Fool and the Hermit

As the promised first lesson with Christine creeps ever closer, Erik has half a mind to cancel on her. After their first one-on-one meeting and subsequent derailment by Nadir, he spent the majority of his non-performance time sitting in the darkness staring at his shaking hands, overwhelmed at the fact that he unwittingly stumbled his way into contact with another human. Nadir, once he catches wind of this, reams him swiftly and mercilessly just hours before the lesson is set to take place.

“This girl is the natural incarnation of a Disney princess with the personality of a mouse,” the journalist says scathingly one afternoon over tea. As is their arrangement for particularly bad days, he looks at the ceiling while Erik keeps his hat brim low, concealing his face as he cautiously sips at the darjeeling blend with Nadir’s cat on his lap. “You’re capable of pleasantries, you cretin. Plus, it’s all about _music._ I’m certain you can carry a conversation with her.”

“I don’t want to scare her away,” he grumbles, taking a substantial drink and immediately regretting it due to the temperature. He coughs, trying not to choke, and Daro temporarily stops purring to stare at him curiously. Nadir glares at a particularly offensive piece of the popcorn detailing, huffing at the admission.

“She hasn’t asked about the get up, has she?”

“Not yet.” Erik sets his mug aside to let the contents cool and resets the mask. The instant he looks up, Nadir levels his glare at the organist. “She will, though. Everyone does.”

“So? I may have talked to her for all of five minutes, but it doesn’t seem like she has a single mean bone in her body.” Nadir points an accusatory finger at Erik, only pausing his diatribe to quickly take a sip of his raspberry blend. “Give her a chance, you morbid fuck. And don’t make it weird.”

“My predisposition is to be weird, and you’re well aware of that,” Erik snarks back, resting his weary head in his unoccupied hand. Daro meows, annoying him into utilizing his free one to smooth down her silky fur. “But I’ll try, if only for you.”

“Glad to hear it,” Nadir says triumphantly, smirking into his teacup. “Now stop stalling. Go get dressed in the petri dish you call a studio and get to campus.”

“May I never darken your doorstep again,” he offers in place of a goodbye, carefully setting the cat in his now empty seat. Nadir huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be late!” he shouts to Erik’s retreating form, just as the organist firmly shuts the door behind him.

He takes the emergency exit stairs down to the basement of their apartment complex, blessedly passing no one on his way. Greeted by the familiar sight and smell of mildew, he awkwardly roots around his pockets for his key ring as he comes up to the last room on the left end of the hallway, right next to the laundry room. Freeing his front door key, he swiftly and silently enters his apartment, trying to focus on the oppressive overhead hum of the building instead of his growing dread.

The surroundings are as familiar as they are stifling; a drab and undecorated double bed, a dresser, a battered armchair, and a thrifted keyboard greet him from the plunging darkness — a narrow hopper window giving off only the faintest amount of light. To his right, the claustrophobic bathroom and closet; to his left, the hilariously small kitchenette. Comfortably dark like an evening in autumn, with no mirrors in sight.

He makes a beeline for the black-lacquer dresser, pulling out a fresh sweater and mask. Glancing at his watch, he notes the forty minutes left until their lesson. Removing the old mask and his hat, he heaves a rattling sigh, less out of despair and more to release the building tension in his chest. 

If this lesson proceeds as he thinks it will, he’ll need extra assistance if he’s going to sing. Pulling the cable knit over his head, he blindly feels around the dresser-top for his inhaler; once he finds it, he settles into the sweater and brings the nebulizer to his lips, taking a deep breath as the medicine unfurls in his lungs. With a few ancillary breaths, he feels much more like his normal self. 

Once the new mask and his hat are firmly in place, he chooses an appropriate overcoat for the season and packs his essentials in its pockets: keys, wallet, cell phone, inhaler, emergency pills, tuner, metronome. He slips on a well-worn pair of gloves and stalks out the door, leaving the apartment looking completely untouched as he hoofs it to the schlubby subway entrance not a block from the apartment complex.

As is usual, this line is running about five minutes late; no worry, considering he’s twenty minutes away from being ten minutes early. He takes out his phone unbidden, opening his only social media app to kill time. Lazily, he peruses the usual gang of cute cats, gorgeously crafted instruments, and gothic architecture when he notices a peculiar article from an opera based blog, timestamped two hours ago. He squints at it; must have missed earlier this morning it in his despondency.

_Metropolitan Opera Diva Carlotta Guidicelli Takes Season-Long Sabbatical in Explosive Episode_

Oh, not this woman again. Erik can’t hold back his scowl — something he tends to do in the name of common decency, despite the fact that no one would be able to tell otherwise. He remembers her well, though he sincerely doubts she would remember him; in his one and only foray into a mainline orchestra pit, he had the misfortune of sharing her stage during a limited run of Madama Butterfly. Her casting as the title role was one of many gripes he had with the disastrous production, which crashed and burned after a week due to a trainwreck of misconduct allegations and unsafe working conditions. She treated chorus members as her servants, started and perpetuated vile harassment against another leading lady, and subjected the conductor to a series of verbal abuse even he shudders to remember.

He distinctly remembers feeling her eyes rake over his darkly swathed form at his seat as the second keyboardist; he was nearly ten years younger then, and significantly angrier. She took him in, disgust plain in her face as she managed a humored sneer.

If a piece of Act II’s scenery had happened to loosen from its restraints and come crashing down at her feet in the middle of her infuriating preening during the orchestra’s long overdue break, he would certainly know nothing about it. He was around the corner at the bodega — what happened that fateful day was the act of a vengeful ghost.

The train screeches into the station. He steps into the cab with a malicious smirk.

He shakes off the bitter thoughts on the ride up to Queens — naturally, he forgot his earbuds in his “essentials” checklist, so instead of self-soothing with Chopin, he silently watches a video of someone knitting a quaint little sweater for a hairless cat. Christine, despite how little he may know her, doesn’t deserve an aggressive phantom on their first afternoon together as teacher and pupil.

He disembarks at an equally disgusting subway concourse, slipping his phone and his hands into his exterior pockets. If he’s learned anything about the past week or so, it’s to pay attention to his surroundings in a public setting.

As he saunters into campus, a creeping suspicion crawls in through the back of his mind; the last time he was here, he was charged as an anonymous concert master at Mrs. Giry’s behest, and the building he needed to be present in was decidedly _not_ the Moncharmin Hall of the Performing Arts.

Though he loathes to speak to anyone (except occasionally Nadir, to his chagrin), it seems the best course of action would be to ask a local for directions.

Just to his luck, he happens to run into an entourage of veritable frat bros; a surprisingly small pack of three. He seeks out what he assumes is the man at the top of the pecking order by his devil-may-care attitude, a young man with long dirty blonde hair and a navy alma mater hoodie.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Erik starts quietly. The three startle, clearly shocked, and the organist takes the opportunity to straighten his back and lower his timbre into his famous ‘I’m a real adult and you _will_ listen to what I say’ voice. “Do you happen to know where Moncharmin Hall is?”

“Yeah, sure man,” the leader says, melting into a lazy grin. His friends glance between each other nervously, clearly uncertain as to whether or not they should join in the conversation. “Go straight down this path, take a left at the fork, and keep walking until you hit the manatee statue. Can’t miss it.”

“Manatee statue?” Erik asks unintentionally, lowering the brim of his hat to his left to really eye the young man. Normally, he would try to wriggle out of a conversation like this as soon as possible, but he’s too taken aback to help himself. The leader laughs, undeterred, disgustingly handsome in his mirth.

“Crazy, right? It was a class gift from the Performing Arts class of seventy-something,” he explains, practiced and confident as a Dionysus-inspired philosopher. “Those hippies had a sense of humor, bro. Have a good one.”

“Yes, thank you,” he sighs, a little exasperated but unshaken. They part ways, and Erik lets the interaction melt away into background noise by the time he hits the fork in the road.

Sure enough, by the time he finds the coveted manatee statue, he’s cheerfully greeted by the inset inscription for Moncharmin Hall, and his charge leaned against the statue’s base in her blue peacoat and a pair of dark round glasses. He approaches, only slightly slowing his pace, until he’s right in front of her. She types out a message on her phone, only sparingly glancing up; when she finally notices him, she does a double take and jumps with a yelp.

“Mr. Claudin! I mean — Erik! Nice to see you again—” She flounders, nearly dropping her phone, but she catches it before it goes tumbling to the ground and securely tucks it into her messenger bag. Erik startles in reaction, trying to help, but fearing that he will only make things worse. She sticks her hand out awkwardly, falling into her habit of offering handshakes when all else fails. “I mean, super excited for our first lesson. Heh.”

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Erik says earnestly, eyes wide. He’s quite unsure of what he should do with his hands, but moves to return her handshake automatically. Christine laughs, nervously, beautifully.

“It’s fine, I startle really easily,” she admits, nervously adjusting her glasses and the braids framing her shoulders.

“Either way, may I strive not to do it again,” he offers warmly, nervously stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “You need to give me access as a guest, right? I’ll let you lead the way.”

“Of course! Hopefully there’ll be a good practice room today,” she mutters, opening the door and leaving it open for him with her shoulder.

They’re naturally stopped by the door guard upon entry; Christine presents her school ID, and Erik is prompted to give his seldom-used driver’s license. He hands it over quickly, face down, and naturally notices the immediate revulsion coming over the guard’s features when he takes a good look at Erik’s portrait. Christine, staring at a row of class portraits across the hall, thankfully seems to not have noticed. Their cards are returned (school ID face up, state ID face down), and the two go about their business.

They board the elevator up to the fifth floor; by the time they get there, all but one of the practice rooms are occupied. Christine looks disappointed, her brow furrowed in worry, but nonetheless herds him into the final, cramped, soundproofed room.

The motion lights flick on upon their entrance. It’s a bit of an odd setup; there’s the requisite cheap Yamaha keyboard and abused particle board bench, but instead of a set of chairs or a music stand, there’s a floor-length curtain and floor lamp partitioning the far side of the room.

He removes his overcoat, and fetches the tuner and metronome, settling into the comfortable routine of lessons. Taking a seat at the bench, he turns on both the tuner and the keyboard and works through a few quick scales. He can vaguely hear Christine’s bag being set down on the bench as he finishes his warm-up. Naturally, right at that moment, the motion lights flick off.

Erik groans, fully prepared to get up and wave his arms around like an idiot, only interrupted when the floor lamp flicks on. Christine looks at him sheepishly, the warm light nearly completely concealing her eyes from how harshly they reflect off her glasses.

“I take it you’re familiar with this closet?”

“Unfortunately,” she says, removing her coat. “I’m usually so busy with work that I can never get any of the bigger ones.”

“I know the feeling all too well,” he assures, regarding her carefully as she settles and preens. “Supporting yourself through college is never easy.”

“You had to work through college too?” she asks innocently. His eyes glance to the side, recalling his not-so-distant past with a vague shudder.

“Undergraduate and masters,” he offers honestly. “I played piano, tutored, picked up construction jobs… anything to keep afloat. Didn’t help the debt much in the end.”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” she commiserates, thankfully looking away to take a hearty sip from her water bottle. Erik hopes that it’s an established health habit instead of a nervous one. “I’ve been working at this little place in the Bronx a few hours a week for the past few years, and it feels like I’m barely scraping by.”

“All I can offer as advice is to remember to sleep once in a while.” He grins nervously, taking his hat off after a moment’s hesitation. It’ll get annoying to keep track of as he plays; he sets it atop Christine’s bag. “Should we get started?”

“Ah, yes! Please,” she stutters, tightly grasping her hands behind her back. If she finds his hair uncouth, she mercifully doesn’t say so. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Since this is our first lesson, I would like to start by getting to know your range and what you’re comfortable with,” he explains, slipping into his professional persona without a second thought. “We’ll start with an exercise, then move onto scales, and end on a song to practice with. Your choice for that last one.”

“Cool, but I mean —are you sure?” She lifts her water bottle to her lips again and takes another sip; definitely a nervous habit. “I mean, you may not know the song.”

“If I don’t, I can get a sense of the basic melody and harmony, and we can stumble through it together,” he says with an easy grin. Something startlingly akin to sentimentality creeps in, and he clears his throat to banish the thought. “Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes, I — Yes. Let’s get started,” Christine says, stumbling over words in her excitement.

“Excellent.” Erik’s hands hover over the keys, eager to tear into them. “To begin, we’ll warm up with a simple exercise. I’ll take you through some scales, and you’ll hum the notes instead of fully vocalizing them. We’ll start with just two octaves to ease into it.”

He starts his favorite scale technique at andante, playing the first interval to demonstrate their starting point. Glancing up at her, he repeats the interval to start the exercise in earnest; the volume on the keyboard is a little loud for the humming warm-up, but he can hear the faintest response from her corner. He continues, climbing from the middle-ground major C incrementally up the fifths to the high C.

The warm-up draws to a close, a little more quickly than Erik would typically prefer. He adjusts the keyboard’s volume, and takes a good look at Christine; she looks like she’s about to faint, and he moves towards her in concern, unsure if he should stand and help her in some way.

“Are you alright?” he settles on saying, brow furrowed in muted panic. She laughs haltingly, eyes wide, and paces around her narrow amount of space.

“Well… to tell you the truth, I have a pretty lousy stage presence,” she admits quietly, growing increasingly agitated as she paces. “I can’t believe it myself, but I’m — I’m having stage fright. Right now, in front of… just you.”

“I see,” he says slowly, turning this information around in his brain. Casually glancing around the room, he tries to think of solutions to make her more comfortable, all coming up empty. That is, until he remembers the curtain.

“This may seem unorthodox, Christine, but humor me if you will,” Erik asks her, standing and grasping the edge of the curtain. He pulls it across the room, removing her from direct view and drastically reducing the light on his side of the room. “Out of sight, out of mind. Give it a try.”

“But you won’t be able to see the keys!” she warbles, concerned. The floor lamp on her side illuminates her enough to broadcast her shadow on the curtain. “Don’t you, I don’t know, need to see me or something?”

“Not necessarily, no,” he says earnestly, taking his seat at the bench again. “I conduct lessons over video calls all the time. Most of the time with both cameras off — so basically a phone call. And besides, we’re starting slow. I can’t shell-shock you out of your stage fright.”

“Okay,” she admits with a sigh. He watches her shadow’s head bow. “Okay, I’ll try it.”

“Worth a shot, right? Let’s try some regular scales,” he guides, playing the middle-ground major C once more. “Sing as you normally would and turn away from me if you need to.”

“Okay,” she says meekly, clearing her throat as he ends the first interval.

She starts out incredibly shaky, hesitant and quiet; it’s as if she wants to blend into the background or fade out. When Erik pulls back and keeps the music low for a few keys, she matches the volume. He continues through to the major B, hoping that the longer she sings, the more confident she will become.

He gets his wish as he slows the tempo down to an adagio. Her true voice unfurls slowly as she remembers to draw from the diaphragm, providing power and volume as she lifts towards her upper range. Her tone is clear and bright; sweet, innocent and jubilant, but not overly saccharine. It’s like golden hour at Prospect Park, a street cat napping on someone’s stoop, or watching the sun rise over the Hudson. To describe it with only one word would be impossible, but he is certain of its beauty.

He loses himself in her voice, throwing an extra octave into the exercise to see how far she’ll go, and she does astonishingly well, only trembling a little bit on the high C. He turns to regard her shadow, giddy, laying his hands politely in his lap.

“That was wonderful, Christine,” Erik says with a flourish of praise. “Slow and steady wins the race. Would you like to move onto another round of scales, or do you want to move onto the practice song?”

“Thank you,” she responds, still meek, but starting to build up some confidence. “We can do the practice song. You don’t happen to know Rodgers and Hammerstein’s _Carousel,_ do you?”

“I know the first act better than the second,” he answers honestly.

“Do you know [ _If I Loved You?_ ](https://youtu.be/N6wROfJMpUo?t=141)”

“I do indeed.” He plays the first few measures, easing himself into the song, remembering its nooks and crannies. “I’ll start at the main part of the song. Remember, it doesn’t need to be perfect. Just be yourself.”

She takes a deep breath; he can tell that she’s nodding her head. He continues through the song, repeating the first few measures to give her additional lead time. Drawing closer to her entry point, he hears her draw in a breath, and is taken aback at the beauty of her voice.

_But somehow I can see_

_Just exactly how I’d be_

_If I loved you,_

_Time and again I would try to say_

_All I'd want you to know._

He longs to be an audience member watching her instead of her conductor. The sight is easy to imagine, even if _Carousel_ isn’t particularly his favorite.

_If I loved you,_

_Words wouldn't come in an easy way_

_Round in circles I'd go!_

_Longing to tell you,_

_But afraid and shy,_

_I'd let my golden chances pass me by!_

Her, dressed in a gilded age working woman’s dress and shawl, perched delicately on a park bench, playfully looking away out to the audience facing stage right, perhaps imagining a lakeshore vista. A leading man regarding her curiously, guarded and cool, but undoubtedly enamored.

_Soon you'd leave me,_

_Off you would go in the mist of day,_

_Never, never to know how I loved you_

_If I loved you._

Erik had been, admittedly, a little skeptical that Christine would be talented with how nervous she came off. That doubt has vanished into thin air. Her singing is like a fine orchid: an unbelievably beautiful flower, but one that needs attention — dedication and care.

He wraps up the last few measures of the song, unable to complete a thought, and cautiously turns to regard Christine’s shadow. To his surprise, she has her head peeped around the curtain’s edge, no doubt watching him play.

“How did I do?” she whispers, so quiet it hurts his black heart in unexpected ways. He stands, shoulders straight and proud, to gently part the curtain. The motion lights flick back on, drowning them in garish blue neon light.

“You did wonderfully,” he says earnestly, tucking his hands into his pockets. “There’s a fair amount we need to work on, yes, but your voice… it’s incredible.”

“You mean that?” She lights up at his praise, finally allowing a piece of confidence to settle in.

“I do.” He hesitates to rest his hand on her shoulder, so instead decides to cross his arms in a feigned triumph. “I’m ecstatic to be your tutor, Christine — we’ll make your voice a force to be reckoned with. Let’s wrap up and discuss what to prepare for next week.”

They pack up the room, excited to be free from the hovel, making a quick exit. As they walk down the stairs to the main entrance, they discuss the plan for the upcoming weeks; Erik will gradually introduce new vocal techniques week per week, they’ll slowly expand the range of the scales, and then they’ll work on one or two audition pieces. They agree that _If I Loved You_ is a good start, but he urges her to select a more operatic piece to flaunt her skills.

The manatee statue is their natural conversion point. Erik has to get back down to Brooklyn for a funeral service, and Christine has her first rehearsal for this year’s season of the Nutcracker at the campus theatre. They hover there for a beat too long, unsure of how to properly bid each other farewell, when Christine confidently goes for the handshake once more. Erik accepts it with a chuckle.

“This isn’t weird, is it?” Christine asks when their hands part. “I’m really not sure what the polite thing to do is in a situation like this.”

“For two near strangers, I think this is a perfectly acceptable way of showing respect,” he says genially, holding his gloved hand to his heart. “Take care, Christine. Send me an email if you have any questions.”

“Thanks again! See you next week!” Christine scurries in the opposite direction, with a noticeable pep in her step. Erik smiles and makes his way back downtown.

Time passes quickly after the first meeting. September melts into October, which somehow trips November into December. Erik keeps himself mercilessly busy with the weddings and funerals, but now has something to look forward to in his weekly lesson with Christine.

At first, it’s easy to focus just on the music. They spend hours going through scales, breathing techniques, and practicing increasingly difficult scores. Christine is graduating next semester after all, and she’s going to need audition pieces. Her improvement is immediate, and her voice unfolds and soars as the weeks pass by; her confidence is another matter. She still hides behind the curtain, but they’re working on it.

But as time goes by they get… close. _Good friends_ close. He loves that, but he also feels like he’s dying. They start talking about their favorite stage shows, pieces of music, or places around town. Loitering at the end of lessons at the manatee statue, inquiring after the Girys and Nadir. Jokes bubble up naturally between them, particularly around the straw warm-up.

One day, the morning of her first performance of the Nutcracker, she brings him a variety pack of tea. He’s as shocked to receive it as he is that he remembered to bring her his own small non-denominational gift.

“I’m not particularly sure what holidays you celebrate, but I wanted to give you a little token of my appreciation!” she chirps, holding it up to him unwrapped. It’s a variety of herbal blends in interesting looking flavors, and he’s genuinely touched.

“They’re lovely, Christine. Thank you,” he says warmly. He holds out his gift in return: a pair of sage green cotton gloves, the type with the technology-adaptable fingertips. “I genuinely think you may have read my mind. These are for you, my dear.”

At first, he thinks the term of endearment is too much, because she falls silent. Before he can truly fret, she breaks out into a gorgeous grin and laughs.

“How did you know I lost my last pair of gloves? These are perfect!”

Oh no. That warms him to his core, and he feels pleasantly lightheaded. He laughs nervously, trying to prevent any dead air, unsure of what to say.

“Thank you, Erik,” she says warmly, hugging the gloves lightly. After a moment, she moves to try them on, inspecting their verdant color in the lamp light. “Will you be able to come to opening night later?”

“Naturally. I have no other items on the ledger tonight.” He seats himself at the piano bench, letting his confidence return in the familiarity of the keys. “I may even convince Nadir to join me, if he feels so inclined.”

Their lesson blends into the warm house lights of the campus theatre, Erik seated alone in the nosebleeds in the back left corner of the auditorium. For a smaller production, the house is fairly packed, which bodes well for the season ahead. Nadir plops down next to him after ten minutes in blissful anonymity, worming his way past Erik’s outer walls with ease as he always does.

“What role is she playing again?” he asks, crossing his leg over his knee and vaguely flipping through the program. Erik sinks in his chair, deciding whether or not he should feel annoyed or relaxed.

“Part of the corps. One of the fairies in the second act, I believe,” he murmurs, hushed by the dimming of the house lights. Nadir hums in acknowledgement, looking up at the stage as the orchestra begins to tune. “She’s more comfortable with choral parts, but she has the talent and potential to be a leading lady.”

“Should I expect to be invited to third wheel you from here on out?” Nadir whispers cheekily, a low chuckle rumbling through him. Erik scowls, wishing he had his hat to hide his eyes.

“Shut up,” he says, falling flat in his returning snark. “Be glad that I was nice enough to buy your ticket, you wretch.”

“I’m your best friend. You _love_ me,” Nadir teases, nudging Erik with his elbow. Erik shoves back, drawing back before it could become a pattern.

“You’re my only friend, and I hate you,” Erik hisses back, gloves digging into the stem of a single red rose — one he intended to leave for her upon the performance’s conclusion. He doesn’t plan to stay or join her and her friends for dinner as she so generously offered, but a little token of good luck goes a long way to build confidence.

He refuses to admit it at that moment, but he’s horrified by the sudden realization that he’s falling hopelessly in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeaaahh so... about that 8 month hiatus........... sorry about that, that was on me (mordicus-spordicus). I graduated, then moved, then got depressed, then got a job, then got MORE depressed, and now here we are! Fun, right? Hoping not to do this again. If you like the fic and are sticking around, thank you and I love you. if you're reading for the first time, thank you and I love you. And to my patient co-conspirator Mx_Maneater, thank you and I love you. Here's to more frequent updates!


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